


Leech Song

by agiaoftyrosh



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blood, Death, Gen, Revenge, here's another Ramsay death scene if anyone wants one, leeches, mildly gross description of illness, the harp is totally metal you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 20:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13888743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agiaoftyrosh/pseuds/agiaoftyrosh
Summary: After narrowly escaping an agonizing death, Domeric has a peculiar punishment prepared for the brother who betrayed him.





	Leech Song

**Author's Note:**

> Because I can't get enough of Domeric. This version is much darker than the one I wrote for "Bad Blood and Burned Castles" for those who've read it.

“Shall I beg for my life now? Perhaps to spare your sweet self from becoming a kinslayer?”

The wasted figure, all hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, gazed down at the man immobilized on the table. “You misunderstand me, brother. To slay you is not the point. I mean to heal you. Those stories about the peasant girls… I never believed them, but I suppose they were true.” He shrugged. “It makes no matter now. You poisoned your brother… your only brother, who only wanted your love. All I asked for was companionship… but of course, that was a boy’s foolishness. You’ve taught me a valuable lesson.”

“What you wanted was someone to lick your ass. I was never going to be your pet and fawn over you when you don’t deserve the blood that’s flowing through your own veins!” The prisoner had been looking up defiantly, spit flying, but at the word blood his eyes flicked to a nearby table. The cell had been scrubbed until it was as clean as any infirmary, and the table held a selection of medical jars. He licked his fat lips. “You’re so weak, I wouldn’t make a pair of boots out of your flimsy skin.”

“Perhaps I was weak, once. But you…” Domeric Bolton crossed to the table and selected a slick brown worm from one of the jars. He held the leech up, examining it as it squirmed vigorously. “It’s your bad blood that makes you do such things. In order to cure you, I’m going to have to take that blood. All of it.”

“I’ll kill your fucking leeches!” Ramsay raved, convulsing with fury as they were placed one by one on his skin. And he was as good as his word. Much to Maester Uthor’s consternation (and Roose’s later irritation) some of them indeed dropped off and died. Not all, though. Those which had been attached to Domeric near the end of his convalescence, which had sucked the last of the poison from him after he had done screaming and writhing in his own filth, they lived. They battened and grew fat on his brother’s blood.

Domeric did not leave Ramsay throughout the last long hours. Sitting just outside spitting distance, he solemnly absorbed the curses, the foul confessions (worse even than rumor had told of), and fouler threats. He needed to hear this excoriation, every last word. He needed to be able to recall it if he ever again felt the pangs of loneliness or longing or any other such sentimental dangers. And when the condemned had finally exhausted himself, Domeric called for his harp.

He had always had great technical skill to go with his nimble hands, but Domeric had always lacked some crucial expressive element in his playing and compositions that would have tipped him over the line from master to genius.

Until now.

The music vibrated through the dumgeons of the Dreadfort, and no one who heard it was untouched.

A torturer caught the melody and burst helplessly into tears, broken by the sadness of it.

A brutalized victim perceived it through the stone as she lay bleeding, and lunged for her distracted, weeping tormentor, sinking her teeth into his throat, as the song drove her mad with rage. The two of them died together as she choked on his life’s blood.

Roose Bolton heard it only a little later, standing next to the fresh entwined corpses. He listened, frowned, and made a note to have his own appointment with the leeches soon.

And Ramsay himself listened, his eyes growing bright and wild, hearing screams in the joyous melody.

The music only stopped when Domeric felt a slickness of blood on the strings. His time in the sick bed had thinned his musician’s calluses and he had not yet built them back up. He put his wounded fingertips into his mouth, staring vexedly at the instrument.

“Brother…” came the whisper.

Domeric stood and approached the table. The ruddy face had turned waxen and the voice was barely audible. Domeric sat on the edge of the bed. “Closer…”

He leaned forward.

“Closer…”

Domeric’s lips curved upward in a smile, but he did not otherwise move.

Ramsay gave it up. “If you must… kill me properly. Flay me. Hang my skin in the Great Hall. Do it… prove yourself a true Bolton…”

Silence fell, empty whole notes filling the room one by one before sliding into oblivion, as Domeric gave this proposal his consideration.

“The times are changing.” He said at last. “The lord of the North has outlawed flaying, or so it is said. We must give up out old ways, and treat our enemies with more civility. Or so it is said. I’m sorry.” The shrivelled shoulders moved in a shrug. “Our halls have no more room for your skin. But we’ll breed a new generation of leeches from your blood… Ramsay Snow.”

The last of the curses were too feeble to be heard over the soft sounds of Domeric Bolton wiping his harp strings clean.


End file.
